Stephanie Iken, Attorney at Law

Here I am, alone on Christmas Eve, thinking about my favorite Beatles song.

The first Beatles song I ever heard was Eleanor Rigby. I was in 8th grade English in 2007, thirteen years old, sitting in Mr. Robillard’s classroom when he played it for us as part of a lecture.

We talked about the violins, how their quick, sharp notes created urgency. How they almost mimicked the speed with which Father McKenzie dug Eleanor Rigby’s grave. We talked about the line “writing the words of a sermon that no one would hear” and how it could mean two things at once. That no one attended the sermon, or that even if they did, the words passed through them without landing. We talked about “no one was saved,” and how that might not just mean physically, but spiritually, in the Christian sense of the word, which, of course, offended a few people.

I went home that day and wrote about the song in my journal. I still have the handout with the lyrics on it tucked away in a memory box. Even now, that single sheet of paper feels like it carries the quiet weight of an entire lifetime of fandom and devotion, long before I knew what the Beatles would come to mean to me. I should frame it.

Not long after that, I started seeking out Beatles music on my own. I listened to radio programs like The Beatles Brunch with Joe Johnson and Breakfast with the Beatles. Every Sunday, I made sure to tune in to my favorite local radio station so I wouldn’t miss them.

It felt like discovering an entire world of people I could relate to, people who seemed to understand me without knowing me. At that point in my life, I was healing from a lot of childhood wounds. The Beatles reached a part of my soul that needed something to look forward to, something to learn about, something to lean into that was not just the darkness of the world.

As Ozzy Osbourne once said, “Listening to the Beatles is like going to sleep in a black-and-white world and waking up to a world of color.”

That’s exactly how discovering the Beatles felt for me. Not like finding another boy band, but like stumbling into a portal to a whole universe of music I never knew existed.

I’ve always been especially drawn to their psychedelic era, particularly Revolver, Rubber Soul, and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. I appreciate every phase of the Beatles in its own right, but I was pulled toward the spiritual and introspective side of their music.

I’ve also always been most drawn to John Lennon. To me, John speaks most directly about the pain of the world. He isn’t afraid to be blunt, even when it makes him unpopular, especially when calling out hypocrisy. He has a sharp clarity when it comes to the ways religion can be used to harm people, and how moral superiority often disguises itself as righteousness.

And George’s music, especially songs like “Within You Without You” and “Tomorrow Never Knows,” is just breathtaking. Those songs feel expansive and grounding at the same time, like they’re reaching outward and inward all at once.

The Beatles are not a phase I grew out of. They are a language I keep learning. Their music has met me in grief, in healing, in curiosity, and in moments when I needed something steady to hold onto. I could write about them endlessly, because they have been there endlessly, changing shape as I’ve changed.

This is only day one on the beginning of a longer conversation. One I’ve been having with their music for years, and one I’m finally ready to put into words. And maybe that’s what Eleanor Rigby gave me all along. Not just a song about loneliness, but a map. A way of finding my place among the people who hear these songs and recognize themselves in them too.

I was one of the lonely people, but I found where I belong.

Stephanie Iken is a Florida attorney who practices complex litigation and supports local musicians through contract drafting and review. This post is a personal reflection and is not legal advice. Nothing herein creates an attorney–client relationship.